


Prima Lux

by Occasus



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII (Video Game 1997), Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020)
Genre: Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, How To Say "I Love You" Without Actually Saying It, M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:49:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27687860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Occasus/pseuds/Occasus
Summary: Letting Tseng go is never easy.Or, a glimpse into an early morning during Rufus Shinra’s house arrest.
Relationships: Rufus Shinra/Tseng
Comments: 7
Kudos: 82





	Prima Lux

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Blueeucalyptus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blueeucalyptus/gifts).



The bed shifts, and Rufus wakes immediately. He has always been a light sleeper, his hyper-vigilance only intensifying with age. It was a consequence of his station—his name alone was reason enough for some to want him dead. 

Everything is fuzzy around the edges from sleep, but sharpens quickly into focus as he orients. It’s still dark out. Through the wide window, moonlight ripples silver across the glassy surface of the ocean, and the faintest hint of gray dawn bleeds into the horizon.

Rufus holds himself perfectly still, feigning sleep by keeping his breath deep and even. He isn’t alone in his bed, but he will be soon. 

Morning means his lover is leaving him. 

As if on cue, the warmth at his back slips away. If Rufus were anyone else, he might have slept through the subtle, careful movements, the minute shifting of the sheets. His lover is silent, thoughtful in his attempt to exit the bed without waking Rufus. 

Tseng must return to Midgar before his absence is noticed. Rufus knows this—it’s become the routine after their illicit rendezvous in his gilded cage—but it never gets easier, letting him go. Rufus resists the clawing urge to roll over and wrap his arms around that familiar heat, demand Tseng stay. 

The mattress dips without a sound, and then Rufus is alone beneath the silk sheets. The bed is immediately cold and empty. He shivers slightly, wondering with a bitter pang how many weeks will pass until Tseng comes to him again. How many long, sleepless nights he will spend lying here alone, driven mad by his own thoughts, his loneliness. 

Rufus listens for any sign of life over his shoulder, a rustle of fabric or an exhaled breath, anything to indicate Tseng hasn’t left him yet. He listens so keenly that his ears ring in the quiet, but his Turk moves like a shadow around the dark room, stealthy as a predator on his bare feet. 

Finally, the bathroom door pulls quietly shut. Next comes the soft rush of water falling from the shower head.

Rufus rolls onto his side, blinking at the sliver of light spilling from beneath the door. His mind supplements an image of what’s on the other side—Tseng standing beneath the spray with his head tilted back, long dark hair clinging to strong, scarred shoulders, water running in rivulets down lean muscled legs. 

Rufus considers slipping out of bed to join him beneath the fall of the water, to press his lover up against the tile, rove his hands over slick skin and steal kisses amidst the steam. But he knows Tseng well, knows he will be in a hurry to finish up, get dressed, and return to Midgar. So in the end, he remains where he is, curling his knees up beneath the sheets, shivering without Tseng against his side to chase the lingering chill away from the room. 

Already, his chest aches from the loss, the innumerable cold, lonesome mornings ahead of him. 

The water shuts off, and once more the room is dreadfully silent. Pale rays of daybreak stream through the window now, brightening the surroundings. Rufus keeps his eyes on the bathroom door, waiting. 

A moment later, Tseng emerges in a cloud of steam, bringing with him the heady scent of sage and sandalwood. He wears a white robe tied loosely at the waist, the two halves parted in an enticing vee of skin that plunges nearly to his navel. It fits him a bit too snugly through the shoulders, made for a body more narrow than Tseng’s. The initials _R.S._ are delicately monogrammed onto the breast in crimson stitching.

Arousal stirs in Rufus’ gut at the sight of Tseng wearing his robe, his name. Quick on the heels of the heat comes an unwelcome bite of bitterness for the idyllic domesticity of what could be if the pair of them led simpler lives. If they were merely Tseng and Rufus, not Turk and spurned heir. 

Someday, it would be different. When Midgar was _his_ city, there would be no more secrets, no more risking it all to meet under the cover of darkness. No more long, lonely nights. 

For now, Rufus bides his time. 

He watches Tseng in the low light with hooded eyes, the shift of his hips as he moves silently around the room, running fingers through the heavy fall of his damp hair. There’s a spare suit hanging just inside the walk-in closet, always kept on hand and tailored specifically to Tseng’s measurements. Rufus gets the full show of Tseng tugging the belt of the robe loose, letting it slide off of his strong shoulders. His olive skin is littered with scars beneath, the marks of a hard-fought life in service to Shinra, and he is all the more beautiful for it. Tseng managed to look more dangerous out of his sleek suit than in it. He was built like a predator—graceful and deadly, all long lines, sharp angles, and lean muscle. 

Tseng turns, and Rufus gets a magnificent glimpse of his ass, the twin dimples at the base of his spine, and farther up, the fading scratches left by Rufus’ own hands the previous night, when Tseng bent him nearly in half and fucked him until he knew nothing but Tseng’s name on his tongue, felt nothing but the push and drag of Tseng’s cock, unmaking him and piecing him back together with the driving force of his hips. 

Rufus’ heartbeat throbs between his legs. He slips his hand down his belly beneath the sheet, careful not to make any sound or sudden movement that would alert Tseng to his voyeurism, biting his lips closed when his fingertips graze the sensitive tip of his cock. He grips himself, greedily observing Tseng’s morning routine—watching him step into a pair of tight-fitting black boxer briefs before he slides on a crisp white dress shirt, nimbly doing up each button with practiced ease. Next are his trousers, which he meticulously tucks his shirttails into before buttoning. He slides his belt carefully through the loops, holding the buckle in his palm so it doesn’t jangle too loudly. Rufus smiles to himself, amused by the care Tseng takes not to wake him, when he’s spent all this time ogling him, hand on his cock. 

By now, dawn bathes the spacious bedroom in gold, sunlight shimmering playfully through the curtain of Tseng’s dark hair as he steps away from the closet. He glides across the room to retrieve his tie from the pile of clothes heaped in an antique wingback chair, turning to face the full length mirror. He pops his collar and slides the stripe of silk around his neck, making efficient work of a Windsor knot. 

Rufus lazily tugs at himself, lolling his head on the pillow to watch the reflection of Tseng’s hands moving in the mirror. He has beautiful hands, with scarred knuckles and long, tapered fingers. Hands that are capable of cruelty. Bloodstained hands, skilled with weapons and calloused from their use. Hands that are gentle when necessary, that reduce Rufus to ruin, that know every line and curve of his body, every place to touch, to press, to stroke that will make him _sing._

Rufus speeds up his hand, smearing his thumb through the bead of wetness gathered at the tip of his cock, slicking it down over the underside. He hears a damning sigh shake up out of his own chest, and the second it passes his lips, Tseng’s dark eyes lift in the mirror, thin brows arching. 

“So. You _are_ awake.” 

Caught, Rufus makes no attempt to hide his actions, arching and moaning, kicking at the sheet to expose himself. The open air is dreadfully cold across his naked skin, but he achieves the desired effect of capturing Tseng’s attention. 

Tseng looks at him over his shoulder, predacious. “I see you’re enjoying yourself. How long have you been at this?”

“Long enough.” Rufus says on a rush of breath, beckoning with his free hand. “Come here.” 

Tseng makes a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat, his focus returning to his reflection while he straightens his collar. “I'll be late.” 

“Tseng,” The name comes from between Rufus’ teeth, the edge in his voice caught somewhere between desperate and demanding. And because Rufus is _Rufus,_ he gets what he wants. Tseng sighs through his nose and obediently steps away from the mirror, toward the bed. 

“You were watching me.” Tseng says, a statement rather than a question. His expression is unreadable as he looms over the bed, his dark eyes flicking down the length of Rufus’ body and back up to his face. 

“Yes,” Rufus kicks his chin up, holding Tseng’s gaze as he adjusts his grip on himself, gasping. “I was.”

“This whole time?”

“Mmm, I woke the second you left my bed.” Rufus’ grin is catlike. “You’re beautiful, you know. Especially wearing my robe.”

“Ah,” a smile plays on Tseng’s narrow lips. “You liked that, did you?”

“My name on you? Very much.” Rufus reaches for Tseng’s tie, winding it in his fist to pull him closer. “But my favorite part was when you took it off.” 

Tseng acknowledges this with a soft chuckle, allowing Rufus to tug him down until he has to place a hand on the mattress to keep himself from tumbling forward. 

Rufus arches his neck to kiss him, but Tseng turns his cheek away, looking at him from beneath the dark curl of his lashes. “I only have the one clean suit, sir. I’m expected in Midgar in a very short time.”

“Do not ‘sir’ me here, Tseng.” Rufus admonishes. “Not in this bed.” He winds the fine silk tighter in his fist, craning Tseng’s head around so that he can press his mouth to his lover’s ear. “Touch me.” 

_“Insatiable,”_ Tseng teases, his smile curling into something playful. He trails his knuckles down Rufus’ side, from the graceful arc of his ribs to the jut of his hip. Rufus reaches to capture Tseng’s wrist, guiding his hand between his legs to replace his own. Tseng doesn’t protest, simply wraps his fingers around Rufus’ cock. 

“I don’t have much time,” He murmurs, as if Rufus doesn’t _know._ As if he hasn’t spent the morning _dreading_ it. 

Rufus forces himself to be present. They have this moment, fleeting as it is. Tseng’s hand on his cock, the very hands Rufus admired in the mirror now making him groan and arch, pulling Tseng’s name from his lips, reverent as a prayer. 

“What would you like?” Tseng’s voice is a dark whisper against Rufus’ ear. 

“You.” Rufus turns his face and finds Tseng gazing back. Morning sun catches in his deep brown eyes, turning them to ochre. “I want to keep you here with me. Spend my nights in your arms. My mornings waking to you.” He reaches to cup Tseng’s face, trailing his thumb along his cheek to the corner of his mouth. 

“Would that I could.” Tseng turns his lips into Rufus’ hand, kissing his palm as he firms up his grip, stroking him in earnest. 

“One day,” Rufus’ breath hitches, his gossamer lashes fluttering, “When Midgar is mine, you won’t ever have to leave again. When it’s _mine,_ it will be _yours,_ and you won’t answer to anyone but me. I— _this_ —will be your duty.” 

Tseng laughs, the sound husky and warm against Rufus’ wrist. “My duty, hm? A promotion? Stroking your cock?” 

Rufus rolls his eyes, smiles. “Being my lover, my confidant.” He gasps, grabbing Tseng’s hand to still his wrist before things end prematurely. “ _My_ Tseng.” 

Tseng nods almost imperceptibly. He is a man of few words, but there’s an understanding in his eyes. An emotion that reveals itself only rarely, in these quiet moments when Tseng’s guard is down; something he would likely jerk back behind his usual mask of stoicism if he realized Rufus could see it. That same emotion aches now in Rufus’ chest, banging around his ribs and demanding to be acknowledged for what it is. 

It remains unnamed, this thing between them. Neither of them ready to say the words. At least, not yet. 

“Make me come,” Rufus says.

“That’s what I—” Tseng pauses when Rufus shifts, cocking his leg, opening his thighs. An invitation and a request. Realization dawns then, and Tseng moves away only briefly to the bedside table before returning. He curls over Rufus, bracing one slender, pale leg against his shoulder, spreading him open.

Rufus’ body remains pliant from the previous night, and two slicked fingers slip in easily to the sound of his pleased sigh. His hips lift of their own accord, seeking, an unspoken request for more. Tseng is intimately familiar with every signal from his lover’s body, knowing when to add pressure and when to ease off, his knuckles curling to find the place that makes Rufus shake and whine, that makes his blue eyes roll back. 

_“Tseng—”_

“Tell me,” Tseng purrs against the fine blond hairs at Rufus’ temple. 

“Fuck me.” Rufus whispers. 

Tseng hesitates, thinking of his suit, of the swiftly passing time. Rufus finds his reluctant eyes, words coming in a rush, “Please, Tseng. It’s all I’ll have when you’re gone. The memory of you.” 

The look Tseng gives him isn’t one of pity, but anguish and desire. 

Rufus isn’t the only one saying goodbye to his lover. 

“You want it too.” Rufus says, his gaze falling to the unmistakable outline of Tseng’s hard cock trapped up behind his finely tailored trousers. 

Tseng responds by surging forward, kissing him, folding Rufus’ slender frame double until the muscles in his leg burn from the stretch. The fingers within him withdraw, and Rufus clenches around empty nothingness, protesting the loss with a frustrated curse, then he hears the jingle of Tseng’s belt coming undone, and understands. 

There’s a moment of repositioning, Rufus somehow managing to get his other leg up over Tseng’s shoulder. Tseng takes a brief moment of courtesy to slick his cock, lines up, and then Rufus’ knees nearly meet his ears as Tseng lays into him, his weight bearing down as he sinks in with a low groan that gets lost in the sound of Rufus’ answering shout. 

“Yes,” Rufus pants, _“Yes.”_ He claws at Tseng’s shoulders, heedless of wrinkling his shirt. Something about sending his Turk back to Midgar—back to his _father_ —disheveled and smelling of sex and of _Rufus_ appeals to him. 

There’s no gentleness in the pace Tseng sets, no finesse, each thrust knocking the breath from Rufus’ lungs. He knows immediately that he won’t last, feels the wave building low in the pit of his stomach. It’s too much, the relentless drive of Tseng’s cock into hidden places that make him feel boneless. He gets a trembling hand into Tseng’s hair where it falls around them, pushing it back from his face, committing the view to memory—dark eyes blown with lust, ears pinked, lips parted and panting. Shrina’s deadliest weapon in the throes of passion.

The wave crescendos without warning, cresting and sending Rufus over the edge. He tosses his head back and comes with a strangled cry, spilling between their bodies with his fingers twisted in Tseng’s hair. 

Tseng’s hips stutter against him. Something akin to a whimper vibrates up out of his chest, and he sinks blunt teeth into Rufus’ shoulder, chasing his release with a newfound rhythm. Harder, faster, nearly cruel. 

“Say my name,” Rufus commands, breathless, “Say my name when you come.” 

Tseng gasps, his fingers bruising into the white skin of Rufus’ thigh. He rocks forward a final time, then all his muscles lock as if he’d been electrocuted. 

_“Rufus.”_ It comes out like a sob, airy and shaking. Rufus latches onto the sound of it, wishing he could capture it somehow and play it over and over again. 

He holds Tseng close as they come down from the rush, his legs shaking. He feels the pounding of Tseng’s slowing heartbeat against his own chest. Vital. Alive. He winds his arms tighter around Tseng’s neck. Every time he lets him leave this place, he wonders if it will be the last. 

Tseng breathes hard against his neck, petting along his hip. He raises up, brushing a kiss along Rufus’ jaw before withdrawing, gingerly settling Rufus’ legs down and pulling away. 

There’s no time. There’s never enough time. 

Rufus lays in a fucked-out sprawl, arms flung above his head, legs left shamelessly open. In the aftermath, he feels cold and empty.

Tseng rushes to make himself presentable again, straightening his tie, retucking his shirt. 

Rufus watches him with a yawning sadness that will only deepen once he is gone. 

The black leather holster goes on over Tseng’s shoulders, a Shinra issued peacemaker tucked beneath each of his arms before he pulls his suit jacket on, buttoning it in the front. He collects his things. Shifts from Rufus Shinra’s illicit lover to the Director of Administrative Research. 

Rufus sighs. “When will I see you again?” 

“I can’t say. Soon. As soon as possible.” Tseng leans over the bed, pressing an uncharacteristically tender kiss to Rufus’ sweaty forehead, brushing back the delicate blond hair with gloved fingers. “I have to go.” 

“I know.” Rufus clings to him a moment longer, inhaling his scent. He wants to tell Tseng to be careful, among other things, but he doesn’t. Despite their physical involvement, some things are still too intimate to say. Men like Tseng can’t afford the luxury of romance, of hoping for the future.

For now, his promise to return, the grief in his dark eyes as he pulls away, is enough. 

Rufus doesn’t watch him go, can’t bear it. He stares at the ceiling, the ripples of light dancing around where it reflects off the surface of the ocean outside the window. 

The bedroom door opens and closes quietly. A moment later, Rufus hears the faint whirring of the heavy security locks to the main door grinding back into place. Then, he is alone. 

An hour passes, perhaps more. Rufus remains in bed, tangled in the sheets that smell of Tseng and of their lovemaking. He should get up and shower. There is work to be done. _Always_ work to be done here, chasing his Midgar dreams from his luxury prison. 

He rolls over, reaches for his phone on the nightstand. It’s a restricted device, monitored by the company. But considering it’s the Turks who keep tabs on his affairs, there are ways for Rufus to get around his father. If he is careful. 

There are no contacts in his phone. He punches in the only number he knows by heart, typing out a single sentence. 

_Think of me._

Rufus sets the phone aside and sits up, stretching. He doesn’t expect a reply, but a soft chime sounds a moment later. The screen flashing up: _Always._

Rufus smiles thoughtfully at the message, and deletes it.

**Author's Note:**

> A gift for Blue, who inspired this whole self-indulgent scene with [this tweet](https://twitter.com/OwnedbyRShinra/status/1320334099437907969?s=20%22). I hope your special day is as wonderful as you are.
> 
> * * * * *
> 
> Thank you so much for reading. Please let me know if you enjoyed this one!
> 
> You can find me on Twitter, at my main [here](https://twitter.com/occasusH), and my FF side Twitter where I frequently scream about Tseng [here](https://twitter.com/OCCVII).


End file.
